Bruises on a Blank Canvas
by Evil Cosmic Triplets
Summary: Theirs was a love forbidden. Disguised as hate. Hidden from those they cared about. Heed warnings inside. Set sometime after the series. This isn't a happy, loving story.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters in this work of fiction, based on the _Twilight_ saga by Stephenie Meyer. I am not making a profit, monetary or otherwise, through the writing of this.

**A/N:** Written for GGE 2014 as a gift for francechis who requested a Leah/Rosalie fic. This is AU, and is angst. Inspired by the following lyrics shared by a friend; and the cotton candy bingo square - space.

"Bruises," by Train featuring Ashley Monroe

These bruises make for better conversation

Loses the vibe that separates

It's good to let you in again

You're not alone in how you've been

Everybody loses, we all got bruises

We all got bruises

**Warning: **Foul language, and non-graphic sex fueled by hate (though, read between the lines and I think you'll find a kind of love). Rosalie is having an affair. Also, I use repetition, fragments, and imperfect grammar. I write poetry, and this piece came to me this way.

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><p>Theirs was a forbidden love, first born of hatred, then of lust.<p>

There was no romance, not for Leah. Rosalie got her romance from Emmett.

What Leah and Rosalie had wasn't an easygoing, carefree love affair. There was still some hatred between them. Would always be just a touch of it.

Leah still smelled rancid to Rosalie. The stench of wolf wasn't easy for Rosalie to stomach, but she'd grown used to it. Like she'd grown used to the stink of Emmett's spunk when they made love. Like she'd grown used to being with a man after being broken by the first man she'd thought she'd loved.

It wasn't being a vampire that had made her a cold-hearted bitch.

Leah still nursed her broken heart. Her bitterness toward Sam and Emily made her difficult to be around. Made her act like the bitch that many claimed she was.

Each knew better, though. Understood what no one else ever would.

Still, it was hatred - for themselves, for each other, for what they'd lost, what they'd become, what others had done to them - that fueled their lust. Gave them passion. Made them who and what they were, whether they were together or apart.

Sparks flew when they got together - limbs twining, perfect bodies undulating, writhing, moving in sync to the rapid beat of their hearts. That's what kept them returning after their first, almost accidental encounter - the sparks.

Hate was their driving force. A heady, addictive aphrodisiac. A forbidden fruit, that, once tasted, neither could live for very long without.

What they had wasn't true love. Would never turn into love. Leah hadn't imprinted. Rosalie was still with Emmett, still enjoyed making love to him. Treasured his gentleness with her. A gentleness that Leah would probably never know.

But Emmett never bruised Rosalie the way that Edward bruised Bella. The way that Leah, fingers hard as rock, lips of stone, did.

It was mostly, almost always, about sex for the two of them. Dirty, hard, self-satisfying sex. Sex that they couldn't get from anyone else. Emmett was too afraid to hurt. To bruise. To remind Rosalie of the act of violence that had made her into a vampire.

Leah, driven by her own personal demons, was not gentle. Didn't know the first thing about what it meant to make love. She took no pains to ensure that Rosalie didn't bruise. Didn't shy away from obtaining bruises of her own.

They both healed quickly. Bruises lasted only moments for them. Moments that they both wished would last longer. Linger as reminders of what they'd done with each other. Who they'd been to each other for a brief space of time when no one and nothing else mattered.

Each woman took what she wanted, heedless of the others' needs, though each always left the other feeling wholly satisfied.

Drowsy and sated.

Electric.

Alive.

As though a perpetual itch had been scratched.

Sometimes - rarely - they talked. Never about anything that mattered, though.

Before long, lips crushed away words of sorrow and oft unvoiced pains with bruising force. Each woman refused to let the other dwell on the past or the dismal future for long, knowing that neither was a path that led to anywhere good.

There was no past. No future. Nothing but the here and now. A space in time carved out for each of them.

They were careful in their affair. Leah'd learned how to keep a portion of her mind strictly to herself. Box it up, keep things secret from the rest of the pack. From Jacob and her brother.

She couldn't, much to her continual annoyance, figure out how to shut the others' thoughts out, though, especially those of the younger wolves who had less control over their emotions. Not that she was a paragon of emotional control herself.

Leah still ached for Sam. Missed his touch, though it had long ago turned cold as the shoulder he'd turned on her. Abandonment made her hate anything associated with the word 'love'.

She relished the way that Rosalie rocked her hips against her, dug her fingers into Leah's hair, tore it out at the roots. Made her body vibrate in ways that Leah doubts Sam ever does for Emily.

Rosalie and Leah never uttered sweet nothings into each others' ears that didn't contain underlying threats or insults. Not like Emmett. Not like Sam. Not like Edward and Bella, or Jacob and Renesmee.

Rosalie's, _"I'm gonna fuck you like an animal," _was a music all its own to Leah's ears when they were alone in the forest.

Hunting.

Chasing.

Playing hard to get. Falling into each others' arms, breathless, though Rosalie didn't need to breathe. Backs arching, hips rolling, tongues vying for control that would never be relinquished.

Leah's, _"You're my bitch," _was a term of endearment when she took Rosalie down by the river, made her pant and beg to come. The melody of rushing water a backdrop to their soundtrack of sex.

Groping.

Grunting.

Fingers banging out a rhythm unequal to that of any man - supernatural or otherwise. Tongues pressing and licking their way to the right spot, without needing a map.

Theirs was a wilderness untamed. A loveless affair that neither could quit, even if she wanted to.

They lived for the bruises. The space in time that was devoted to creating and receiving them. Their skin a blank canvas that only the other could paint upon.

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><p>Reviews make my day. Please let me know if you enjoyed reading this.<p> 


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